


this is gospel (for the fallen ones)

by kingblake



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Poetry, abuse mention, extended metaphor poetry, my first stab at poetry?, please don't hate me this is my first try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:40:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: a poem about danny atlas and jack wilder.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "i love the moon   
> so much  
> that sometimes   
> it physically aches–  
> but for all my leanings  
> toward starry nights  
> i will always,  
> always,  
> choose the sunlight"  
> — ashe vernon
> 
> inspired wholly by my all-time favorite poet, who made me want to write poetry so badly my skin physically itched until i'd written the last word of this poem. also!! i'd like to make a quick disclaimer that YES. i KNOW i didn't capitalize anything. please do NOT correct my grammar, because despite what it may look like, i DO know what i'm doing.

when you get home  
you take your day off like a coat  
heavy, exhausting  
your shoulders sink like the titanic  
you have the sky on your shoulders  
and nobody to help you lift it

you hang your coat of exhaustion  
on the rack  
hoping its weight won't snap the wood  
because that's the rack your father gave you   
night after night  
with a belt to your backside  
and a hand to your throat

he greets you at the door  
smile wide, eyes warm  
with an expression he saves for you  
and you only  
he looks at you like he is icarus  
and you are the sun  
he yearns for your warmth  
and yet he holds you at an arm's length  
because if he gets too close  
he can't trust himself to take a step back

he helps coat from your shoulders  
and wipes the dust from your hair  
he dips his fingers into the darkest parts of you  
and scoops out the shattered remains  
of your broken heart  
because he's collecting the pieces  
so he can glue them back together

when you dig your fingers into his back  
you can feel the razor edges of his ribs  
his lungs belong to a marathon runner  
and his heart to a hummingbird  
fragile and strong  
you feel the spots where his wings used to be  
and you massage the feathers back into place  
(you tuck a feather into your pocket for safekeeping)

  
he is heat and you are chill.  
he is light and you are dark.  
you push your fingers underneath his shirt  
searching for a spot of warmth  
begging for an entrance into his soul  
you feel the scars of his childhood   
against your fingertips  
and when he flinches away  
you can see the heartache beneath  
his paper-thin skin.

you guide his fingers to your back  
begging him to understand  
and when he feels the jagged remains  
of your wings  
he holds his hands flat against your back  
for so long it seems like he's become   
a statue  
he doesn't move  
he doesn't blink

he just  
waits

and then he looks at you  
with heaven in his eyes and   
hope on his lips

you've never believed in god

but if this is gospel, you think,  
then may they call you a saint.

— j.c.


End file.
